


Soldiering On

by Chuffed4angst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Acceptance, Squicks and Triggers Galore, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Weight Gain, Weight Gain Kink, fantasy life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuffed4angst/pseuds/Chuffed4angst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John won’t let himself fall into depression after Sherlock’s death. He just might lose his marbles, but he finds ways to cope. He soldiers on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a little something new for me. Fatlock, non-magical, a little more character driven. Never fear, though. The end-game is some good ol' chubby kink.

All of John Watson's hopes and dreams crashed that day. As ephemeral as hopes and dreams generally are, John never expected to see them literally crash, but that was exactly what happened when Sherlock fell to his death.

John’s loss was all too painful in those first moments, hours, days. Like an earsplitting noise, his pain was so loud it drowned out everything else. He couldn't hear, no less respond to, the voices that tried to comfort him. He saw the sympathetic faces, he saw that they were talking to him, and he tried to listen, really he did. Nothing registered. He found if he nodded at certain times the speaker would feel they had done their job. They would shake his hand or give him a hug and then leave him be.

He focused on the minutia of the here and now; this breath, that sound, some texture. When he let go of the present for so much as a moment in those first days, he was drawn back to that unmistakable silhouette on the edge of the roof, so tall, so proud, falling into the wind, falling, falling. He saw it when he closed his eyes. He saw it in his dreams, in his nightmares.

And every time, blast it, he jumped out of his sodding skin.

His eyes would open with a start, heart hammering. He'd think, _I needed him. I still do. But he's gone_. That last thought broke him.

He didn't sleep much.

He muddled through the days and weeks afterward. Eventually, all the arrangements and rearranging and administrative issues had been dealt with. There was nothing else, so he soldiered on. That was what soldiers do.

He found comfort in his routine.

He returned to work four weeks after the Fall. Work at the clinic filled a good eight hours of his day with people and pleasantries and a sense of being useful. He could stretch his days to nine hours by putting more time into his record keeping. His patient charts had never been so well kept.

When Lestrade called about a curious case five weeks after the Fall, he went to help because that had become part of his routine, too. He wasn’t Sherlock, by any stretch, but recalled Sherlock's disparaging advice to simply ‘observe,' and he found that he could. He observed the two young women had not hung themselves, but been strung up and tied; one faced east, one faced west; chalk images on the floor suggested some ritual involved in their placement; the soles of their feet were torn and bloody; although traces had been swept away, ultraviolet light showed footprints leading downstairs to the basement from a penthouse where the women had first been assaulted. He discussed his observations with Lestrade and together they followed the clues and puzzled through that first case between them. He knew his contributions were minor, but whenever Lestrade called, John would go help. That’s just what he did.

Of course, his work at the clinic and helping with the occasional case only accounted for a fraction of his time. John found himself with entirely too much time to fill. All too often, he ended up standing still somewhere in ~~their~~ his flat, staring blankly and having no idea what came next. He tried to fill the empty spaces with routine. He made tea and toast for breakfast. He sat in his chair and read the paper, or scanned the web, or watched crap telly. He escaped the emptiness by going on endless walks through the city as he and Sherlock had so often done. He ate at familiar restaurants and brought home familiar take out.

Comforted by the familiar, there came a time when John began to see everyday images of Sherlock instead of constantly repeating that fatal fall. Watching Mycroft bundle up to leave one evening, he smiled at the memory of the panache with which Sherlock had swirled into his belstaff and tugged his scarf into a cravat on his way out the door. Annoyed by Anderson at a crime scene, he remembered the secret smirk Sherlock used to share that said, ‘We shall suffer this imbecile together.’ Listening to a patient falter in describing the embarrassing circumstances of an injury, he longed to hear Sherlock blurt out the ‘obvious’ facts for them.

Sometimes John felt almost as if Sherlock were there with him. He could nearly hear Sherlock's running commentary. At first, Sherlock's voice broke his heart all over again and he had to block it out. That was when the silences were the most maddening. The flat was echoingly silent, especially during sleepless nights. John had grown accustomed to Sherlock’s puttering through the night, not sleeping until dawn. Not that the git ever believed it was reasonable, of course, but Sherlock had begrudgingly accommodated John’s and Mrs. Hudson’s ‘ridiculous’ expectations of sleeping through a quiet night. At the very least, he’d conceded not to play his violin, or conduct explosive experiments, or move furniture in the wee hours. With our without loud bangs, however, Sherlock’s constant energy had almost always been audible; pacing, tapping, typing, or making tea -- a purely nocturnal talent, by the way, that Sherlock seemed unable to perform during the day. Now all that energy was gone.

John turned on the telly to fill the silences. It covered up the creaking floors and sighing pipes, and all the empty spaces where Sherlock should be carrying on. John much preferred the constant chatter to silence, and soon left the telly on whether he was watching or not. He bought small flat screens for his bedroom and the kitchen and left all three sets tuned to the same channel, usually BBC or CNN. Of course, with the news came Sherlock’s observations. When BBC reported the murder of a prominent peer, John’s mind churned through a Sherlockian analysis of motives and means. When CNN reported a failure in the world financial markets, John’s inner-Sherlock became indignant that the so-called experts had not seen that particular turn coming a mile down the road.

Initially, John hated hearing that voice. It wasn’t real, goddamn it, just a jagged reminder of someone gone forever. As time passed, though, he couldn't help becoming fond of it. No matter how arrogant, the rumbling tones were a sort of caress. John’s easy recollection of Sherlock’s voice was proof of just how closely in sync the two friends had become. It was the closest John could get to the company of his old friend. Sometimes it even made John laugh. And that was good.

When he actually laughed out loud, it broke John’s self-restraint and he’d let out the whole circus going on in his head. “Of course you’d think that, you arrogant git. Not everyone can do calculations up to 20 digits in their heads. The more important question is what to do with the sum. Let’s see…” And John would get out a calculator and work it out for himself.

Once accustomed to it, John mostly let Sherlock’s monologuing wash through his consciousness without acknowledging it. A large portion of his snide observations were unsurprising: John’s day was too boring to bear, this or that person’s stupidity disproved evolution. Now and again, though, Sherlock’s view was so outrageous that John felt compelled to jump in as the voice of reason. This was absurd, he knew. Sherlock wasn’t there. He was arguing with his own imagination. Embarrassed at talking to himself, John would flush and mutter, and well, that would be the end of that. _Dull,_ Sherlock would complain. _Boring_. John had to agree, really. And so, one evening, when John countered Sherlock’s convoluted multi-national conspiracy theory for the current hijacking with the reasonable point that, “You’re being too fanciful, Sherlock. Unofficial terror cells are far more likely culprits than a coordinated effort by the covert military factions of four of the world’s largest governments,” John didn’t stammer to a sheepish stop. Instead, he looked to the skull on the mantel for support. “Tell him, Billy. He’s barking, is he not?” As it turned out, John was very glad to have asked. Billy was much more the reasonable sort than Sherlock, and between the two, John and Billy stood a fighting chance of matching the genius detective.

John tried not to think too hard about the dynamics of these conversations. He hadn’t lost the thread. Not really. It was just that Sherlock seemed so heartbreakingly present. He was at the edge of John’s vision. He was just there, sprawled on his sofa; sat at his desk; staring out the window. Only he wasn’t. The harsh reality was that Sherlock was in none of his haunts and never coming back. Whenever this truth struck too close, John fled to the kitchen for a cuppa.

The kitchen was safe. Since Sherlock’s science equipment had been packed away, mundane cooking and washing in the kitchen was entirely John’s domain. In death, it turned out, Sherlock avoided cooking and cleaning just as he had while alive. The kitchen gave John needed time and space away from his inner-Sherlock. It was soothing to have only one voice in his head and John took to spending more time there. On weekends, he explored cookbooks and package-backs to hone his culinary skills. He followed along with BBC cook shows, starting simply with Tom Kerridge’s Proper Pub Food. As he improved, he moved up to MasterChef. Distraction-wise, he most enjoyed spending time cooking with the Hairy Bikers.

With all the noise and activity, John got quite good at masking the fact that the flat was empty. He was so successful, in fact, that there came a moment when he forgot entirely.

The first time it happened, he was very sleepy and listening to a morning chat. He made four pieces of toast and two cups of tea before he remembered. When he realised what he’d done, he scoffed and dumped the tea down the drain. He did eat the extra toast – it wasn’t much, after all. Sherlock might have avoided kitchen work, but John had learned how to tempt Sherlock when good food was on the table. Even when it had only been John doing the eating, they had shared happy times over meals. For a minute or two that morning, Sherlock’s toast filled the void.

Later that week, John forgot again and ordered their ‘regular’ from Mr. Chin. He felt a bit silly when he got home with both his favorite Szechuan Chicken and Sherlock’s regular Mongolian Beef. Silly as it was, he rather liked the familiar smell of the Mongolian Beef. After eating his own meal, he couldn’t resist dishing out a plate of the Mongolian Beef and eating it. He savored the taste and the memories. He ate entirely too much for comfort and ended up lying down on Sherlock’s couch. Somehow, digesting Sherlock’s favorite Chinese on Sherlock’s couch seemed to fill the void that night.

On clinic days, John packed a bag lunch just as he always had in his pre-Sherlock days. He was eating his ham and cheese sandwich one day, when he looked at the calendar and realised it was Sherlock's birthday. He couldn’t help thinking of the lunchtimes when Sherlock had barged into the clinic, announced his boredom, thrown out John’s bag lunch and dragged him around the corner to the Monocle Cafe for a burger and a chat. The memory of that first near-kidnapping lunch was irresistible. Without another thought, he told the receptionist he’d be out for a bit and walked round to the Monocle in honor of Sherlock’s would-have-been thirty-third birthday. He picked up one of the cafe’s courtesy copies of the Times to leaf through, just as Sherlock had done. The burger was just as good as he remembered, and without his resident sneak thief he was left to eat his entire portion of chips. Just as Sherlock’s Mongolian beef had filled John’s void the other night, eating lunch in honor of Sherlock’s birthday made John miss his friend just a little bit less.

John knew it didn’t make sense. He was well aware he shouldn’t eat for Sherlock. But he also knew he was grieving and that emotions were not meant to be rational. As long as he didn’t make a habit of eating for two, it wouldn’t be a problem.

After the Mongolian Beef blunder, John made it a strict rule not to order entire meals for Sherlock. But that rule did not apply to the side dishes that Sherlock used to pick on during cases. Despite Sherlock’s insistence that food bogged down his brain function, John had discovered that Sherlock would grudgingly accept an offer of something "extra" if John claimed to have ordered too much by mistake. They never discussed it, but Sherlock had come to eat John’s ‘extra’ plates of ravioli, baskets of bruschetta, bowls of macaroni and cheese with only nominal resistance. Those side orders had become part of John’s routine, and he continued to order them. He ate them too, thinking fondly of how Sherlock had allowed John to make sure he ate regularly so long as Sherlock didn’t have to admit to the change.

John didn’t change his shopping routine. He’d learned to buy in larger quantities because Sherlock never bought his own groceries. He’d also taken to buying whole milk and clotted cream and a few other rich staples in his effort to supplement Sherlock’s spotty diet. They had been minor changes, and hadn’t had any obvious results. But the larger quantities and richer foods had become part of John’s shopping and he didn’t think to change it.

About five months after the Fall, John started feeling the effects of having kept Sherlock in his meals routine. He knew he'd put on a few pounds. Dr. John Watson was not oblivious to his habits. He was a man of science and had a habit of accounting amounts and measures, so he was well aware of what was happening. He’d gained 13.3 pounds (still, not quite a stone) and knew he needed to cut back. He was unsurprised, then, the morning he let his belt out another notch and his trousers still felt too tight. He didn’t run out to buy new clothes. Rather, he planned to take the weight off.

He made countless plans. Every morning, as he had a harder time squeezing into his clothes, he vowed to eat less that very day. But, by the time he’d set the kettle to boil and turned on the telly to mask the deadly silence of the flat, he wanted the comfort of those two extra slices of toast. On Mondays, he slathered all four slices with butter and marmalade. On other days he’d add marmite or peanut butter or one of the half-dozen other enticements he’d offered Sherlock for the sake of nutrition. Sherlock might not be there, but with all the options, he kept the spirit of the breakfast negotiations that had become an integral part of their morning routine.

He let himself enjoy his breakfast. He was certain it wasn’t a problem. Two extra slices of toast were negligible. He intended to reduce his food intake throughout the rest of the day.

But then he didn’t. There were always worthy exceptions to his plan. When Mrs. Hudson brought up fresh baked biscuits, it would be rude to refuse. For the sake of his budget, he took advantage of the two-for-one special at Pizza Express, fully intending to have left-overs for the next few days. He diligently bought fresh veg for salad, but somehow his autopilot feet took him to Speedy's for comfort food on the way home. When, unbidden, Angelo served him an extra side of ravioli and it made him smile. John really didn’t have the heart to refuse. Just as he enjoyed the imagined banter, he liked the idea of eating with Sherlock. It might be a bit mad or childish or whatever. He would never admit to it. But John came to love the overfull feeling that came when he ate for them both.

John didn’t take off the weight. By June, he weighed more than 200 pounds. It was the first time he’d ever passed that particular milestone and he didn’t like to think of the total. It seemed less significant when he limited his consideration to the fact that he’d now gained 19.6 pounds.

No matter how he played with the numbers, he could see and feel the changes. He made himself stop thinking of it as ‘bloat’ and admit that soft new flesh had settled here and there. Most notably, his many stuffed stomachs had rounded out into an unmistakable gut that made fastening his old trousers impossible. Well, if not impossible, then insufferable.

He again planned to cut back on the first Saturday in June, when he pinched himself in his zip and struggled to tuck in his shirt. Looking in the mirror, he saw just how fat he was. He would absolutely stick to his plan from now on.

 _Right,_ Sherlock butt in. _Just like you stuck to it yesterday. Those were low-cal fish and chips, were they?_

John glared at his svelte gadfly and chided, “Not helpful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. _I’m trying to be helpful. If you’d only observe properly, you would realize the ridiculous way your gut bulges out over your too-small trousers makes you appear far heavier than you actually are._

Good diet intentions aside, John Watson did not make a habit of looking ridiculous. He spent the rest of that day buying a new wardrobe and was relieved that he did. Now his clothes fit properly, his problem was solved. He was comfortable and he looked fine. He might be pushing the top of healthy weight for his height, but he wasn’t overweight in a medical sense. No one mentioned it and it didn’t bother him, so it must not be problem.

That summer, John noticed his sister and Sherlock’s brother began taking turns checking in on him with dinners on alternating Tuesdays.   Strangely, they seemed more concerned, not less,  as time went on. Their concern both annoyed and warmed him.  He supposed he could understand why they might worry, but, considering the circumstances, John felt he was doing pretty well.  He hadn’t fallen into a bottomless depression after witnessing the death of his flatmate, best friend, and business partner.  He slept most nights now.   What with work at the clinic and the diversion of a case consult every week or two, he was out and about most days.  And still, he made a point of doing more.  He went on at least three long walks every week, and out for drinks or dinner with Lestrade or Molly or old mates at least once a week.   Just this  month he'd bought a ticket for the upcoming Violin Classics series at Albert Hall.

And so it went.  John kept as much of his old routine as he could and filled in the rest to build a tolerable life without Sherlock.  He wouldn’t claim to be happy, exactly, but neither was he miserable.  Boring or not, it was enough to be going on.

As the summer went by, John enhanced a few parts of his routine that reminded him of Sherlock.  He found a spinning table-caddy to hold the marmalade and other breakfast spreads -- he liked to imagine Sherlock’s childish glee in spinning it.  He dined at Angelo’s on Tuesdays and lunched at the Monocle every Thursday.  He took a short afternoon on Fridays so he could accept Mrs. Hudson's invitation to Friday afternoon tea.  He stuck to the same take-out rota he and Sherlock had fallen into.  (“Just… not Chinese three nights in a row.”  “That wasn’t Chinese, you philistine.  We had Indian last night and Thai the night before.” “Still, I’d rather something without rice one day.”)  Repeated arguments had led to a mutually approved rota:  Chinese, chippy, Indian, pub, Thai, pizza.  It had made good sense at the time and John saw no reason to discard a system that worked.  He clung to flimsy thoughts of left-overs and continued to order a small portion of Sherlock’s favorite take-out in addition to his own.  When he cooked at home, he tried to make things Sherlock would have liked.  He tracked down the bakery they had found after solving the Siamese kidnapping and made a point of stopping there on the way home from trips to the Yard to buy a dozen of the cranberry scones Sherlock had so adored.

When Harry or Mycroft asked, John assured them he wasn’t lonely.  Not terribly lonely, in any event.  It really wasn’t their concern, so he didn’t say a word about the lively conversations going on in the sitting room, or spending quiet time in the kitchen.  He didn’t tell them he spent most evenings sharing Sherlock’s favorite foods to the point of stuffing himself.  He didn’t share his amazement at how much his appetite had grown.  He didn’t mention how his spreading belly felt a bit like having a cat in his lap, or how he sometimes pet his belly while he read or watched telly.

In the last week of August, a new nurse named Mary Moriston started working at the clinic, and seemed to take a fancy to John.  She’d served in the RAF, so they had plenty of common experiences to talk about.  John enjoyed her company well enough and was happy to spend their lunch break together, but turned down her suggestions of spending time together outside of work.  By the third time he turned her down, it had gotten more than a little bit awkward and John admitted to her that he was still mourning the loss of his Sherlock, that no, they hadn't been a couple, but might as well have been.  After that, it was easy to talk to Mary about Sherlock. Mary was very sympathetic and began to bake baskets of treats for John to take home with him.

By October first, John had gained another 13.7 pounds and the generous new wardrobe he bought in June seemed to have shrunk.  Not only had he outgrown the trousers, but his belly was pushing the limits of his button down shirts.  He didn’t fight it this time; he needed warmer winter clothes in any event.  He decided to go shopping before he was as uncomfortable as he’d been the first time this had happened.  He decided he didn’t mind getting a bit fat.  He might,  technically speaking, be overweight, but he was nowhere near obese, and that’s where the health risks really were. So long as he didn't tip over to the obese range, John wouldn’t let his weight bother him.

John was pleased with his new clothes.  He’d found a shop with clothes that suited his casual professional style perfectly.  A lovely clerk had helped him find his sizes and come up with an assortment that was both versatile and comfortable.  Initially, he’d been embarrassed to explain his sizing situation to the pretty clerk.  But Amy, that was her name, had put him at ease by assuring him there were plenty of women who liked a little meat on a man’s bones.  She’d been positively flirty and given him her number.  He wasn’t sure he’d actually call her, but he’d certainly enjoyed his shopping trip.  He wouldn’t mind going shopping there again.

That night, he celebrated his return to sartorial comfort.  He put on his new leather jacket, a soft black shirt and pair of the most comfortable jeans he’d ever owned and decided to treat himself to dinner at Angelo’s.  He was sure he could have tracked down someone to go with him, but thought it wouldn’t be worth the effort.  Angelo was happy to see him.  He bypassed a line of waiting customers to greet John like a returning king and gave him the next available table.  Angelo recommended a fish special, but John had his heart set on the lasagna Sherlock had liked.  Never one to heed the particulars of Sherlock or John’s orders, Angelo served him the lasagna and the Porcini Mullet, as well as a side dish of pumpkin ravioli in cream sauce.  It all looked and smelled wonderful.  It also looked like an enormous amount of food, even by John’s recently increased standards and he gave a token protest.  Angelo smiled expansively and said that he’d be glad to pack up any leftovers to go home.  Left to himself with his feast and a bottle of wine, John amused himself with the thought of how witty the exchange would have been if Sherlock had been here to spar with Angelo.  He remembered how surprised he had been when he first saw how much Sherlock had enjoyed this excellent lasagna; how much it had pleased him to see Sherlock actually eat with gusto.  He tasted the pumpkin ravioli and was pleasantly surprised by how delightful it was.  He savored every bite, imagining how intently Sherlock would have observed and commented on its taste.  He didn’t expect he’d like the fish and left it for last.  It turned out Angelo was right and Porcini Mullet was beyond delicious.  John had honestly meant to limit himself to a small taste, but it was too good to pass by.  He took one more bite, swearing it would be the last, and then took another until he’d eaten the entire filet, as well as the rice and asparagus it was served with.   Pouring his last glass of wine, John found that, except for the stray sprig of parsley, he’d scraped all three plates clean.  Looking down at his inflated stomach, he thought he ought to feel stuffed to the gills, or at least a bit disgusted at having eaten so much.  But all he felt was a warm wine buzz and very, very satisfied.  He sat back and watched the people walking by.  Without asking,  Angela brought coffee and tiramisu.  It was just another drop in the bucket after all he’d eaten, so John didn’t bother to protest.  The pudding was brilliant, as always, and he ate every bite.  He was so replete, he could have stayed another hour to just digest, but customers were still waiting.  Between the wine and his stuffed stomach, he found he needed to hold the back of the booth and the table to lever himself up.  He wobbled a bit and giggled to see his belly sticking out proudly like a proper fat bloke.  He laughed at the thought of what Sherlock would surely have to say about that.  And he let Angelo help him to a cab.

  
He was still pleasantly groggy and weighed down the next morning, and so decided to skip his Sunday morning walk for once.  As he read the paper that morning, he admitted to himself that he wasn’t terribly concerned about fitness.  He’d never imagined himself going soft, but he found himself growing surprisingly fond of the bulky warm presence of his belly.  He chuckled as he pet his warm little ‘lap cat’.  Should he name it?  In any event, he knew he wasn’t willing to give up the sense of companionship with Sherlock that he enjoyed at meal times.


	2. Hitting His Limit

As he wove bits and pieces of imagined time with Sherlock into his life, John soldiered on.

He doggedly filled his alternate post-Fall life with a collage of inadequate not-Sherlocks. The ebb and flow of his relationships with the sad imposters reminded him of the stark difference between the beginning and end officer training school.  At the beginning, there had been an easy comradery amongst all of the officer candidates. In the middle, they’d been split into blue and yellow teams for war games and fought tooth and nail against supposed friends.  There had been no going back after the games; once forged allegiances had never disappeared.   Long past graduation, John had felt a certain warmth or hostility toward his classmates, founded on nothing more than yellow or blue team loyalty.

Similarly, John couldn’t help but feel that all of the not-Sherlocks in his life sorted themselves into two camps:  those who were judgmental about his weight gain, and those who were not.  The much larger First Camp offered an annoyingly persistent storm of ‘healthy’ advice to make sweeping changes and fresh starts that John could only imagine were meant to distance him from memories of a once happy life.  In the smaller Second Camp, were a loyal few who understood John's choices for what they were:  his stouthearted persistence to survive in a world bereft of Sherlock.

Most everyone was in the First Camp:  medical colleagues, football mates, folks at NSY.  John knew the First Campers meant well, but they simply didn't understand.  Despite long, seemingly heartfelt conversations, First Campers could not appreciate John's perspective.  No matter how many ways he explained, they could not grasp the impossibility of thriving under the dim light cast by a 40 watt bulb after having grown accustomed to the sunshine.  As no amount of explanation seemed to deter these well-intended lectures, John saw First Campers less and less.  

Eventually John stopped making any effort to socialize outside his very small Second Camp.  He felt comfortable knowing he could count on Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and, quite surprisingly, Mycroft.  One of the best things the Second Campers did for John was to give him plenty of space.  John preferred to spend the majority of his free time with Sherlock and Billy the Skull, who were an increasingly steady presence at 221B.  These confidential friends were steadfastly in John's Second Camp.  They could be blunt and often told John off for one thing or other, but at the end of the day, they understood his needs and choices.  They were there with him day in and day out, shared in his experiences and grew accustomed to John's changing habits and soaring measurements as they happened.  They didn't ignore it, but neither of them gave John a terribly hard time about his weight gain.  Being himself, Sherlock couldn't hold back his observations.   He chided John for eating himself sick.   _Don't expect my sympathy.  Honestly.  If you don't know your limits, who would?_   He gave rather blunt grooming advice because   _There is no reason 'fat' and 'sloppy' should be synonymous_.  Billy just sort of went with it.  He took to calling John "Big Guy" in a fond sort of way, and helpfully reminded John of next steps in recipes and essentials for his grocery list.

As autumn turned cold and damp, his hip ached more, forcing him to bring out his cane and shorten his walking route a bit. When temperatures dropped into an icy winter, cobblestones, curbs and stairs became more hazardous. After one too many painful missteps, he allowed himself the luxury of taking a taxi to work when it was icy out.  As the holidays came near, he decided to eat healthier by cooking more for himself.  While his home cooked menu was rich on nutrients, it wasn’t much lighter on calories than take-out.  He also did a lot of baking. In between batches and while waiting for things to cook, he spent more time in the kitchen where he always had something on hand to eat.

John kept gaining without serious qualms and until the day the scale told him he was 5 pounds from the ‘obese’ mark (15 stone; 220 pounds) on the height/weight scale.  This had been his self-imposed limit all along, so now he knew he had to change his tune.  It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, but he reflected over his snowballing daily intake and the slew of rationalizations and justifications he’d used to bend every rule and goal he had set for himself.  Determined to reverse the trend, John vowed to limit dinners to salads of no more than 500 calories. 

On the first night of his new diet, he did his best to make his salad tasty and filling.  He grilled a small chicken breast and sliced it over a bed of mixed greens, succulent veg and balsamic vinaigrette.  To his credit, it was a lovely salad and he enjoyed it while it lasted.  It would have made a delightful first course to any dinner.  But it certainly wasn’t enough to be called dinner.  The sad little excuse for a meal left John half-hungry and entirely unsatisfied.

“Tough,” he told himself.  “I got used to addition is easily enough.  I’ll just have to get used to subtraction.”  So, he cleaned up after himself, drank a tall glass of water, and sat himself in front of the telly to pass the time – 4 hours – until bed.   And then another 7 hours until breakfast.  It seemed like forever.

The best he could find was a rerun of Top Gear.  It hadn’t held his interest first run, and it wasn’t any better on second run.   Worse, the insipid show was interspersed with blocks of adverts for chain restaurants, salty crisps and heavenly ice cream brands.  The same tempting series of promos became more powerful as they repeated themselves at each break.  Soon, John’s mouth watered and stomach rumbled in time with the cheesy jingles.   He rubbed the unhappy cat in his lap in an effort to stave off his cravings, but his usually pleasant pet growled and hissed.   He flipped through a couple of medical journals, but nothing looked interesting.   In a desperate bid for distraction, he pulled out his mobile and toyed around with games.  He started with Bejeweled.   Still, all he could think about was the overly cheery grandmum encouraging him to treat himself to a wholesome bowl of heaven, in an assortment of his favorite flavours.  He switched to solitaire, and again, his mouth watered at the thought of an icy cold bowl of mocha ice cream with big chocolate chunks, run through with ribbons of caramel.

John’s stomach rumbled as if he hadn’t eaten all day.  Sod it all.  He made himself a lovely cup of oolong.  As ever, tea was a comfort.  The comfort was fleeting, however, and 5 minutes later he wished for nothing more in life than a 7 topping pizza.  Because that would hit the spot, wouldn’t it?  Blast.  He up and turned off the telly before it drove him mad.  Giving in to desire, he went to the door, donned his parka and opened the door with every intention of marching to the nearest pizzeria.  But no, god damn it.  He wouldn’t give up so easily.  He thrust his parka back on the peg and began to pace.

 _Good lord, man!  Calm yourself_ , came Billy’s common sense admonishment.

“No.   I can’t.  I’m bored,” John whinged.   “I’m hungry.  I’m trying to turn a new leaf here, but it seems I missed the memo about “Go Be a Glutton Day” or whatever fool reason all the ads tonight are for food.  Not just food, mind you.  Really good food.  All my favourites.  And not just food, but apparently this is what we’re meant to do with our mates.  Meet at a pub; it’s where the good times roll.  Get the family value pack for time spent together.”

Lounging on his couch, Sherlock looked up from his book, annoyed at the interruption.  _Do stop moaning.  I can’t concentrate through all your petulance._

John huffed.  “Pardon me, your highness,” he bowed sarcastically.  “Terribly sorry to have inconvenienced your post-mortal education by starting a diet.  Considering how harsh you always were about Mycroft’s up and down weight, I’d have thought you’d approve the change.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Not if you are going to lose your nut over it.  Healthy is one thing, John, but it doesn’t mean you should be a masochist.  Stop pacing._

John stopped short.  He hadn’t actually realized he was still pacing.

He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared down at the massive obstruction that had once begun as such an innocent little belly.  Not so little now, was it?  He gave his best effort to suck in his gut, to absolutely no effect.  He couldn’t see so much as the tips of his toes.  He bent his head as far as he could, and still no toes.  He had to bend over at the waist to see past his mammoth middle.

“More than a little bit not good,” he reflected.  He started pacing again and cringed to hear how heavy his steps sounded.  “Poor Mrs. Hudson,” he sighed.  “It must be like having a hippopotamus upstairs.”

Sherlock snapped his book shut and bound to his feet.  _For the love of – Do shut up, would you?  Stop berating yourself.  Stop making yourself miserable. You certainly don’t need to lose weight on my account.  You must know, surely, that no one in this flat cares how much you weigh._

“No?” John asked dubiously.

 _Not that you bothered to ask_ , Billy cut in, _but I couldn’t care less._

“Ta, Billy,” John was oddly comforted.  Looking toward the couch, he queried, “You don’t care?”

_Don’t be a girl, you twat.  Why ever would I?  Your weight is irrelevant._

“But-“

_As I’ve expressed on countless prior occasions, I refuse to abide conventional societal values or expectations.  Just as I have no use for meaningless pleasantries, I have never adopted commonly held beliefs as to fashion and beauty-_

John pulled a face.  “But you were merciless with Myc-“

 _John_ , Sherlock admonished.  _You should know without being told that I have never once confused you with the constant irritation that is my elder brother.  I disdain Mycroft for his superior attitude.  I resent him for forever imposing his will on me.   I would like to poke him with an ice pick for a thousand intangible and, no doubt, tedious inchoate wrongs.  Sadly, I was far too well socialized to have ever employed an actual ice pick against him.  Instead, I needled my bothersome brother about his weight.  Mycroft’s weight was a perfectly innocuous issue, but for his own self-consciousness about it.  His measurements were completely irrelevant to Mycroft’s truly annoying qualities, but his insecurities were such an easy target that I never was able to resist.  So.  I’ll admit it.  I took cheap shots at Mycroft. You should never interpret the childish weapons of sibling bickering to mean I must be adverse to the lush curves of excess adipose._  

Sherlock sat primly on one end of his couch and patted it in invitation. _Sit with me.  I’ll show you._

John wanted to so badly that he didn’t question the invitation.  He sunk into the comfort of the other end of the couch.

Sherlock turned toward him slightly.  He put one finger on his chin in mocking consideration.   _Hm_ , he considered.   _Yes.  You are still my John.  Your measurements don’t make a bit of difference._

“Ta.”  John couldn’t help but smile.  “But that’s not quite the point, is it?”  John looked down at his belly blooming out where his lap had once been, over thighs spread so wide they were visible beyond the circumference of his massive middle.  He felt the heft of his ‘cat’, the pressure in the middle where his thighs pressed against each other, where his belt cut tightly at his waist.  His elbows bumped out over the swelling fat rolls at his sides.  All of the old empty spaces around him were now full and he had nowhere to rest his hands.  He ran both hands tenderly over the cresting swell of his belly.  In a very small voice, he admitted, “The point is I’m too big.”

 _Completely subjective_ , Sherlock rejected out of hand.   _You could never be too big to be my John.  What are your criteria?_

John’s reply was delayed by the rush of warmth he felt at Sherlock’s declaration that he could ‘never be too big to be my John.’  He savored that warm fuzzy feeling before considering his criteria.  “Too big for my old clothes,” he offered at last.  “Too big for all of the fat clothes I bought mere months ago.”

 _Piffle.  Material things can be replaced_ , Sherlock dismissed.   _Give me something that matters._

“Too big to be healthy,” John admitted grimly.  “I’m a half kilo from the point on the NHS height/weight chart where I’ll be considered obese.  They make the distinction for good reason.  There are all sorts of increased health risks for the obese.”

 _Statistics_ , Sherlock discarded haughtily.   _Statistically, you may be at higher risk for certain things.  But tell me, Dr. Watson, have you shown a single sign of any of those problems?  Hm?_

John hesitated.

 _Don’t tell me you haven’t checked!_ scoffed Sherlock.

John pinked.  “Of course I’ve checked,” he sighed.  “My cholesterol is surprisingly low.  All of my vital statistics are fine.”

 _So you are not too big to be healthy,_ Sherlock crowed.   _Do you have a single relevant standard by which you judge yourself 'too big'?_

John looked down in shame.  “Too fat to be attractive.  I’m too fat not to be disgusting."

_Oh, I don’t know about that.  Again, you have chosen a terribly subjective test, and I don’t agree._

“You are just being… supportive,” hedged John uncomfortably.

Sherlock was aghast.   _I’d **never**!_

John snickered.  “Well, no.  I suppose not.  If not supportive, you’re simply being contrary.  Either way, it doesn’t prove anything.”

 _You want proof?_   asked Sherlock.   _I’ll give you proof.  We’ll conduct an experiment._

John raised his eyebrows at that.  “How so?”

Sherlock stood and switched into drama queen mode.  He looked entirely too smug as he peeled himself out of his robe and draped it over the back of his chair.  Clad only in t-shirt and pajama bottoms, he sat down and carefully arranged himself to face John.   _We shall observe_ , he said with a flourish of victory. 

“Observe?” John was skeptical.

 _Yes, John_ , reassured Sherlock, as if explaining to a small, very stupid child.   _You shall observe yourself.  I shall observe you observing yourself.  And you shall observe what evidence there may be to indicate attraction or disgust._

“What?” John snapped.

Sherlock smiled slyly.   _You_ , he said very slowly, _shall observe your largeness.  Where are you largest?_

Duh.  “My stomach,” John sighed.

_Very well.  Then to observe your stomach, you must unbutton your shirt._

John glanced at Sherlock hesitantly.

 _Undo the buttons, John_.

“Kay…”  John began to comply.  His snug button down fell back like curtains opening to show a stage.

_What do you see?_

John had mostly avoided this sight, but there was the undeniable evidence of John’s constant overeating, eating in memory of Sherlock, a hundred shared meals.  “Erm…”

_Describe yourself as though I’m blind and can’t see you there._

“I see,” John’s breath hitched.  “My pecs are padded with handfuls of flesh.  They look my sister did when she was thirteen, only bigger and hairier.”

 _Very good_ , Sherlock murmured.   _Go on…_

“My, erm, my belly starts right under my pecs.  It spreads out like the moon; big, white and a bit lumpy.”

_I see no lumps._

"Divot, more like," he pondered, poking a finger deep into his bellybutton.  "If my belly is the moon, I've hella  crater."

 _A crater worthy of exploration_ , agreed Sherlock, with a smirk.   _Now touch your belly and tell me what you feel like._

“Touch?” John practically choked.

 _Go ahead_ , Sherlock reassured.

Biting his lip, John tried.  He placed his hands flat on either side of his belly.  He laughed nervously.  “Warm.  My hands feel icy on my warm stomach.”

 _Good_ , Sherlock approved placidly.   _What else?_

“Soft.  There’s a bit of soft blond fuzz.  And pliable.  Up here, I’m pretty firm and I can push dents in with my fingers.  Down toward the bottom, I can grab a bit and pull it, or twist it.”

 _Does that hurt?_   Sherlock sounded alarmed.

“Not really, no.”

 _What if you slide your hands under?_   Sherlock prompted.

“Oh,” John breathed as he did as asked.  “Feels good.  If I lift up a bit, it takes away some of the pressure from my waist band.  I guess my trousers are pretty tight.  And, uh, I’m really warm under there.”

_Heft yourself._

John did.  He chuckled when the big ball of his belly pushed up and bumped into his pecs.  “Christ…

 _Jiggle_ , Sherlock directed.

John lifted a little on the right, then the right, making his belly flesh jiggle.  “Heh,” he chuckled.

 _Good?_ asked Sherlock.

John considered.  “Not bad,” he allowed.

 _Now, stroke yourself_.  Sherlock demonstrated little circles.   _Like this._

John followed suit and smiled.

 _Now like this,_ purred Sherlock, demonstrating long stroking pets around the bottom of his belly.   _And tell me what you feel like._

“Mm,” John searched for words.  “Strangely… lovely.”

Sherlock hmphed a little sound that clearly boasted he’d been right, as he knew he would. 

John met Sherlock’s gaze in silent acknowledgment. 

 _Have you named him?_  Sherlock asked.

“Who?”

 _You know.._. a grinning Sherlock said, while glancing suggestively at John’s stomach.  When John continued to gape, he added, _I listen to you, you berk._

“What?” John was baffled.

Frustrated at the sheer stupidity of all those not blessed with his own brilliance, Sherlock sighed.   _Your cat, John.  Have you named your lap cat?_

“Oh.”  He looked down to see where he was, arguably, petting said lap cat at the moment.  “Right, my cat.  No.  It’d be a bit barmy to name it, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock smiled fondly.   _Yes_ , he said dryly.  _**That** would be barmy._

“Wouldn’t want to act barmy,” John muttered petulantly.

 _If you say so,_ said Sherlock, then changed the topic.   _Stage One of our experiment is complete.  Stage Two is you observe me for any obvious reaction.  Do you see anything to lead you to believe I am disgusted by the sight of you?_

Continuing to comfort himself with his soothing belly rub, John looked Sherlock in the eye.  He saw a definite mischievous glint, but nothing definitive.  He shrugged.

 _Please_ , said Sherlock in his most bored tone.

John examined Sherlock starting at his curly top and heading down.  He zoomed in on Sherlock’s tented lap.  “That’s… no cat,” he snickered.

 _No_ , Sherlock allowed.  He freed himself through the fly in his pajama pants, disclosing an impressive erection.  He took himself in hand; closed his eyes; furrowed his brow.  Pulling himself with a slow, familiar rhythm, Sherlock forced himself to breathe.   _Tell me, John._  Sherlock made a point to look directly at John’s belly.   _Do you observe any evidence tending to indicate I find your large belly attractive or, um, disgusting?_

John had never thought to see Sherlock in this sort of a position and his own breath was quite taken away.  He had to think what the question had been.  “No,” he decided.  “You aren’t disgusted.”

 _Correct.  I’m not disgusted_ , Sherlock agreed.  His smile turned feral and he slouched down a bit.  Still looking John in the eye, he asked, _What about you, John?  Are you disgusted?_

“Nnooo,” John swallowed.  “I wouldn’t say that.”

 _Show me_ , Sherlock invited.

“You’re shameless,” John accused breathlessly at the same time he raced to undo his belt and zip and free the evidence of his own attraction.

Sherlock laughed. _What would be the point of holding back now?_

“Point,” snorted John as he took a firm hold of his very aroused member.

 _John,_ Sherlock raised a brow.   _Spread out and really show me._

John couldn’t think why not.  He tugged his trousers down, lent back into the corner of the couch and pulled the hang of his belly up to give a bit of a show.  He sped his pull in time with Sherlock’s rhythm.  “How’s that?” he asked breathlessly. 

 _Definitely not disgusting_ , said Sherlock in a tone that said ‘you’re beautiful.’  His expression became strained and his strokes quickened and his eyes fluttered. _Oh.  John_.

“Sherlock…”  Overcome by the heat and beauty and impossibility of the moment, the sight of Sherlock in orgasm pushed John to join him.  Their arousal fed on the other’s in an infinite feedback loop, and each experience was longer and better for the other’s.

Later, when John was compelled to tidy himself, he smirked and told Sherlock.  “Good experiment.”

Roused from sleep, Sherlock mumbled, _Might n_ _eed to repeat to verify the data._


	3. Siblings, huh?

John got more than enough interaction when he was out and about.  When he was snug in 221B he didn’t often crave actual human contact.  But every once in a while he needed to see Harry.  For better or worse, a hug from Harry was the closest thing to ‘home’ he had.  John always knew he could count of Harry to some extent.  She had her own dark moments and wasn’t the most reliable, but he knew she would always be in his corner after all they had been through together over the years.

Compared to Harry, Mycroft was practically a stranger.  Maybe the fact that it was entirely unexpected, John thought, was why Mycroft’s unflagging support meant so much.  John started out simply tolerating twice-monthly dinners with Mycroft.  The best that could have been said about their early outings was that they were short and Mycroft made no demands on him for clever conversation.  As they went on, John began to look forward to Mycroft's choice of excellent restaurants.  New cuisine and locations gave them an easy topic of conversation.  Once they began chatting, John found that it was easy to talk to Mycroft.  He was a good listener and a good sounding board for any Sherlock-related thoughts. 

Though they rarely discussed it, they shared a mutual tug-of-war between their love of food and the inconveniences of food’s consequences.  The day he realized he had surpassed Mycroft’s girth was something of a milestone.  There had been a time when John might have expected something snide, but Mycroft was easy about it.  “Far be it for me to begrudge you, John …”  From that time on, Mycroft became a chubby ally of sorts.  The very next day, he sent Anthea round with his tailor.  Then, it seemed he’d listed 221B for grocery delivery when John was sick or the weather was particularly foul.  The whole George Orwell thing was still creepy, but in a heartwarming sort of way.

***

The fact John felt safely cossetted by the siblings made Harry’s colossal Christmas Eve melt down all the more traumatic.

***

It seemed to John that he’d spent all his energy that day finishing obligations – work, errands, last minute gifts.  Finally, he’d done his duty visit with Mrs.  Hudson and he was never so ready to be rid of people.

John took the plate of red and green biscuits from Mrs.  Hudson with a tight smile.  "Lovely.  Thanks ever so."

 _Any excuse to harass you, Dear_ , Sherlock mocked in a dead-on imitation.

Mrs.  Hudson fluttered her hand.  "Anything for you, dear.  Are you **_sure_ ** you won't join us tonight? The more the merrier..."

 _...and aren’t you persuaded by this, my 17th identically guilt–inspiring invitation?_  Sherlock spoke over Mrs.  Hudson.

John shot Sherlock a look.  "I'm certain,”  he said, teeth gritted and moving to chivy her out the door.  "You go enjoy yourself.  Happy Christmas."

"And you,”  Mrs.  Hudson backed out, looking concerned.

John shut the door more firmly than strictly necessary. 

 _You have no one to blame but yourself, you know.  You shouldn't let her get her foot in the door!  Just chain the door._ Sherlock advised him.

John shook his head and went to add more brandy to his eggnog, muttering, "She means well."

 _Stop making excuses for her_ , Billy the Skull scolded.  _She's just your landlady, not your mother_.

John glared at the skull.  "No,”  he said firmly.  "Not you, too."

Sherlock chortled.  _Afraid of what you'll hear? Come, come, Captain John.  Let's hear what Billy has to say._

Billy didn't give John a chance to shut him down.  _Don't pout, John.  You know it's true.  You need to draw some boundaries.  This is your flat, but you wouldn't know it with the way people come and go and try to tell you what to do._

John sank into his chair with a large mug of eggnog.  "What would you have me do?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  _It's not rocket science, Captain.  He counted on his fingers, Lock the door, for one.  Don't let them in, for two.  Tell them to go away, for three.  It shouldn’t be difficult._

 _They have keys_ , Billy reminded.  _Get the lock changed._

John looked from one to the other, more irritated than he wanted to admit.  "For the love of...”  He finished off his eggnog.  "All I want is a quiet Christmas Eve.”  He stomped over to the door and turned the deadlock.  Glaring at his companions, he roared, "Why will no one leave me alone? Not even the two of you!"

Sherlock clapped slow and sarcastic _.  Well done, John.  So you **do** know how the lock works.  You had me wondering._

John crossed his arms and glared.

 _Hush you_ , cautioned the skull.  _Maybe if you stop inciting him, we could actually enjoy the evening._

 _I'm not stopping him._   Sherlock huffed and crossed his very long legs.  _A little music might be nice_ , he suggested peevishly.

"Right,” John muttered, and then began knocking about to finish preparations.  He slammed a CD of Handel's Messiah into the player and hit play.  He stomped about, lighting candles.  Pulled several containers out of the fridge and threw together a generous dinner plate.  While dinner was in the microwave, he stacked an assortment of treats on a second plate for afters.

Wisely, his flat mates waited silently for John to cool off.

John sat at the table and tucked in.  After Sherlock’s enjoyable reaction, John hadn’t stuck to his resolution to seriously cut back on his food intake.  He’d moderated his habits somewhat and reduced his gain to a very slow trickle.  But this was Christmas and he’d prepared a generous selection of his favourites.  His dinner was quite good, if he did say so himself, and he allowed it to sooth him.  He served himself a heaping set of seconds and began to relax.

 _Better?_ Billy asked from his shelf.

 _Let him sulk,_ Sherlock dismissed.  He strode to the window and started plucking his violin in part with the Messiah.

John was as noisy as possible as he cleaned his dishes and put away dinner.  "Not sulking,” he grumbled.  He ignored his companion’s hoots and poured himself a third eggnog.  "A fire should be cheery,” he narrated to himself, going to the hearth to build one.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was still pushing for some excitement.  John brought Billy the Skull back in from the kitchen for the occasion, carried his pile of sweets and a snifter of brandy to the sitting room, moved both his and Sherlock's chairs to face the fire and sat down.  "Just what the doctor ordered,”  he said firmly.

_Give him a break, Sherlock.  What are you expecting?  Gunshot?  Heroine?  Dancing girls?_

Sherlock shrugged. _**Something.** Anythingto break the tedium._

"Shut it, would you?”  John snapped.  Feeling churlish, he made a show of eating a macaroon.  "Wow.  Delicious.  Mmm.  Wouldn't you like one?”  He didn't usually hold the joys of living over their heads, but these berks deserved it tonight.  Asses.

 _There's the Christmas spirit,_ Billy praised sarcastically.

John might have had a witty comeback, but the moment was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.

 _Sshh!_ Billy hissed.

 _This is the part where you don't answer the door_ , drawled Sherlock.

John knocked back his brandy.  Handel’s Massiah started again on repeat.

More knocking.  "Come on Johnny!”  came Harry’s voice.  "I hear you in there!"

John hoped against hope that his sister would just go away.

"John!”  Harry whined.  She rattled the door handle, then slid down the other side of the door.  "Doncha wanna see me?"

 _Is she drunk?_   Billy wanted to know.

Sherlock snorted.  _Astounding deduction._

"Lemme in Johnny,” Harry began singing.  "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.  Are you sleeping, are you--"

If it was anyone but his sister, he would have waited it out.  But it was Harry.  John lurched up out of his chair, a bit on the woozy side himself.  He unlocked and yanked the door open to find Harry on the floor, holding up a bottle of whiskey.  "Cheers, John!"

“Jesus, Harry.”  John pulled her up on her feet and into the flat.  “What are you doing here?”

“I like that!  What am I doing here, on Christmas Eve.  I’ve come to see m’ baby brother, ob-yously.  Aren’t you pleased, little brother?”  Harry punctuated her jibe with a sharp poke to John’s soft belly on the word ‘little’.

Harry had been giving him a harder time about his weight lately.  Skipping over her annoying comment, John shook his head.  “I’m not glad to see you smashed.  Did you drive here?”

“There’s my Johnny.  Mr. High and Mighty.  Course I drove here.”  She took a step toward John and poked deep into his soft stomach.  “How did you get here, huh?”

And here came his headache.  “Jesus, Harry.  How drunk are you?”

She stood a little straighter and informed, “Drunk  ‘nough to say what you oughta hear.”

Sherlock and Billy rudely encouraged John to kick her the hell out.  “This isn’t about you,” he said to Sherlock’s chair.

Harry tugged on John’s sweater and squawked, “Don’t talk to him, Johnny.  Sherlock’s dead.  He’s not here.”  She pushed up against him, thunked her forehead against his chest.  “Jus’ you an’ me baby.  An’ look at cha’.  Juss-t look at cha’.” 

He pushed her up and she stumbled back onto the couch.

John hated to see his sister this way.  “Look at me?  Look at you.  You’re a wreck,” he said sadly.

“Ha!  Knew you’d say that!”  she said in triumph.  “But the thing is, Johnny.  You’re the mess.  You’re talkin’ to dead people and eatin’ yourself into an early grave.  And you know what?”  she demanded.

John crossed his meaty arms.  “What?”

“Iss gonna be fuckin’ huge.”  She gestured wildly.  “Biggess grave ever.”

 _Bitch!_ Billy judged.

 _Family._ Sherlock opined flatly.

“Jesus fucking Christ.  Tidings of the season, yeah?  Thanks for that, luv.”  John snatched his sister’s purse and stole her keys.  “Time to go home.”

Many more hurtful accusations and ten unbearable minutes later and John had pulled her up off the couch, steered her to the door, and half carried her to the street.  He sent her off in a taxi, telling her to sleep it off.

John lumbered back up the stairs to find Sherlock pacing in that way of his that promised unwanted deductions .  “Don’t you start,” he growled.

Sherlock didn’t listen.  Sherlock never listened.  _Have I taught you nothing about sibling relations?_

“Ass.  Like yours is exemplary,”  shot John,

_At least I never let Mycroft walk all over me like that._

“Argh!  Shut!  Up!”  John stormed over to the desk and pushed everything off its top.  “Shut up and go away!  I don’t need you!  I don’t need this!!”  He swept books off the shelves.  “This is bullshit!  Absolute shit!”  When most of the books were strewn around the room, he went over to the drinks cabinet and took the half bottle of brandy.  “This sucks,” said John, by way of a toast.  Sending an air clink Sherlock, he said, “You suck,”  and took another long swallow.  “And you suck,” he air clinked Billy before guzzling most of the rest of the bottle.  “And I suck.”  He drained the bottle and threw it to smash in a corner.  “Fuck!  I used to be good for something.”  John’s voice cracked, asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

He could still hear them talking, but by this time, John was too drunk to understand anything Sherlock or Billy had to say.

“Happy Bloody Christmas to me.  I’ll just open my present, shall I?”  John staggered to the tree.  It took him three tries to pick up the box from under the tree.  He slammed it on the kitchen table and declared, “Great present.  Got myself the perfect thing.”  He pulled his service revolver out of the drawer he kept it in now and sat heavily at the table.  “What do you have here, Johnny?  Oh, I don’t know, Johnny.  I’ll have to open it up and find out.  What do you know, Johnny.  You’ve gone and bought yourself a right smart gun cleaning kit.”  He opened the box.  “Wow, Johnny!  How did you know?  Thanks, mate!  It’s just the toy every lad wants from Saint Nick.  Really?  I’m so glad.  Wanna play?  Who, me?  Sure.  I’d love to,”  he said, pulling the pieces of the kit out.  Then he frowned and picked up his revolver.  “Not you,”  he said, pointing his gun across the table where Sherlock stood watching warily.  “Nu-uh.  This is mine.  Ha.” 

Sherlock did not look happy.  He was trying to get John’s attention, but John was in no mood to listen.

A noise on the stairs caught his attention.  “What’s?”  he asked.  And then he heard the door.  “Fuck me.  Not again!”

John’s eyes went wide and he put a finger against his lips.  “Sssssssssssssssssshh!”

Billy seemed to be talking.  Something about  ... _how late?  Mrs.  Hudson might_ …

More knocking and John tried to tippy toe to the door.  “Sorry Mrs.,”  he began as he opened the door.  “You aren’t Mrs. H!”  he accused.  Suddenly suspicious, he demanded, “Why’re you here, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft smiled sadly and held up a huge gift basket as if that were an answer to the question.  “I miss Sherlock,” he said.  “I have his favourites.  May I?”

Very few things could have drilled through to John at that moment, and Mycroft had hit one perfectly.  “Awe, Mike.  You’re a good brother.”  John beamed and put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulder to lead him in.


	4. The Prodigal Sherlock

John had been in his cups on Christmas Eve, but not enough to forget Harry’s hateful prediction that he was eating himself into the ‘biggess grave ever’. In a way, Harry had done John a favour. After all, her drunken state and his anger made it much easier to dismiss everything Harry had said. The fact that Harry stopped calling or visiting made it very easy. Flipping off his ungrateful drunk of a sister bundled into John’s muddle of motivation.

John’s life marched on in the same direction. Well, more of a leisurely ramble, but still in the same direction. He went through the motions, but the parts of life without Sherlock were grey and uninteresting. Like Dorothy transporting from Kansas to Oz, John could only see in color when he could hear Sherlock’s voice, when they communed through food, or when they flirted into more arousing pursuits. A little weight gain was a small price to pay for the times John felt glad to be living.

***

At some point, John began avoiding chairs with arms. He still fit in them, of course, but he didn’t fancy how it felt when his sides brushed against the arms. It was purely a matter of preference, not necessity. He was somewhat appalled, then, the day he stood to go attend to patients and picked his desk chair up with him. His arse was wedged in so tight that it picked up the chair and didn’t pop off until he pushed back on the arms.

Two of the clinic nurses came running when they heard the crash.

Billy reacted first.   _Uh oh.  This’ll be more ammunition for the diet police._  

 _It's none of their business.  Busybodies.   Don’t tell them._  Sherlock said dismissively.

John was able to excuse his clumsiness that first time, but after the fourth time it happened they all decided it would be best to replace the chair.

As embarrassing as the desk chair was, they dismissed it easily enough as being a cheap, skimpy foreign made piece of trash.  

The more difficult problem was John's denial that he had also grown too large for his comfy chair by the fire.  The night after they bought John's executive desk chair, Sherlock pushed the point.  

 _Why are you at the kitchen table?_   he called from the sitting room.   _It's rather much more comfortable in here._

Knowing Sherlock wouldn't let up until he got his way, John took his book and tea and biscuits and trudged into the sitting room.  He perched carefully  on  the front of his chair and found the place in his book.  

 _Come now, John.  You look tense.  Sit back and relax._  Sherlock taunted.

“I’m comfortable.”  John insisted.

Billy snickered.

Sherlock tutted.

“Oh, all right,” sighed John.  He shifted his generous back side and tried to settle into the chair.  Try as he might, he couldn't get comfortable. His squashy love handles were wider than the wings of the chair and got pushed forward, forced to pack together in front with his belly.    “I fit,” he insisted stubbornly, then propped his book on the crest of his belly and went back to reading.

Billy stage-whispered to Sherlock, _The picture of relaxation, that._

 _Our John is a bit of a masochist,_ Sherlock confided in the same stage-whisper.     _Not many people know it, but it’s true._

John slammed his book down.  “For Pete’s sake!  Just shut up!”

 _Touchy, touchy,_ Billy tsked.

Sherlock, on the other hand, gave a single loud clap and jumped up.   _Time for more shopping!  Come on.  It will be fun._

John just rolled his eyes.  “Grow up.  Would you?  Stop making this an ordeal  There’s no need to make changes.”  He very deliberately stood up, moved his things and sat back down on the near end of Sherlock’s couch.

 _You are a stubborn man, John Watson_. Sherlock said fondly.

The couch was very comfortable.  Unfortunately, he sank down nearly to the floor and required major levering to extract himself from it.  John's flatmates had a seemingly endless supply of creative comments about his undignified struggle to pull himself up and off of it. 

Still, he didn't want to change Sherlock’s things. Instead, he continued to perch uncomfortably on the front of his too small chair any time he had company. When he was on his own, he planned ahead and collected his things so that he could stay sat for hours on end. He learned not to sit down until first arranging several hours’ worth of food, drink, reading material, remote control, smart phone, and his laptop.

In the back of his head, John knew this was not a great long term plan, but denial had been working well for quite a while.

Of course, all good things must end, and this one did, too.

After returning from a particularly plenteous Sunday brunch with Mycroft, John was so deliciously overfull and sluggish he probably should have gone to take a nap. Instead, he methodically supplied the coffee table with all the necessities to last through an afternoon of football watching. He wasn’t thinking clearly and it took him longer than usual to collect it all. When he thought he had everything he wanted, he all but collapsed onto the couch. He dropped too heavily and broke through the wooden frame to crash on the floor.

Mrs. Hudson must have been out, because she didn’t run toodle-oo-ing right away. For this small grace, John was very grateful. 

 _Well done!_  Sherlock whistled.   _Truly well done._

Bent like he was, John’s belly was pushed up to his chin.  “Holly shit.  Maybe I should have gone shopping.”

His ever-so supportive friends hooted at that.   _Excellent deduction_ , Sherlock drawled.

John struggled to sit up, but gave up quickly, so as not to throw up his entire brunch.    He was much too full at the moment to bother getting up right away.    “Ooff.”  He wiggled to spread his knees as wide as he could and felt much more comfortable.  He was prepared for the long haul and comfortable enough, so he settled in to watch his soccer games.  

Sherlock was incredulous.   _Really??  That’s your solution??_

John brushed him off.  "Quiet down Sherlock.  There’s football to watch."

 _No good can come of this,_ Billy predicted.

Over the next few hours, he enjoyed the games, checked his email, and did a little internet shopping. He also ate two batches of biscuits, three party sized bags of chips and 5 bottles of ale. He wasn’t bothered to move until his need for the loo was extreme.  By that point, however, he discovered there was no amount of effort by which he could pull himself out of his quicksand couch. After a good 15 minutes of struggle and "told you so" from his flatmates, he was forced to phone for help. Mycroft must have been waiting for his call, because he’d no more than rung off when Anthea entered the flat flanked by two huge bodyguards to rescue him.

It was excruciating. The two giant fit blokes bent to move his littered coffee table out of the way. One swept down to scoop up the debris left from an afternoon of eating and drinking. The other produced a dish towel to clean the crumbs John had dropped down his front and everywhere else.

“Ready, sir?” one asked.

Before he could muster an answer, they each took a hand and an armpit and hoisted him to his feet. One steadied him, while the other explained they’d been instructed to see him settled safely in bed before they could leave.

Mycroft’s men didn’t laugh. They didn’t say anything rude. And yet, it didn’t make the situation any better. John would have liked to melt through the floorboards. As Mycroft’s men ushered him to the bathroom and then to bed, every iota of John’s sanguine contentment with his comfortable post-Sherlock lifestyle flew out the window.

Displaying her precognitive talents, Anthea knew without being told that John would never allow the replacement of Sherlock’s couch. She simply informed him that a carpenter would be by the next day to rebuild the existing couch.

John took Monday off to let the carpenter in and, more to the point, to take stock. By now, he weighed 341 pounds and was straining the seams of his largest trousers. He didn’t even know what size he was growing out of because all of his trousers had been tailor made. His polos and sweaters were a mix of 3X and 4X. He knew, of course, how he had gotten to this point, but it truly seemed like only yesterday that he’d been an average-sized bloke. But no, yesterday he was the obese bloke that broke his own couch and went ahead to eat himself into a stupor before realizing he needed to call for help. Where would he be without Mycroft’s team?

He’d thought he’d had reality checks before, but this one was the real deal. There was no easy fix. Sherlock, of course, offered a string of accurate but unhelpful factoids and observations.  Billy, bless him, stayed mum.

John skipped breakfast, but he was not accustomed to getting by on nothing but tea. By 11, he had a roaring headache and his empty stomach was tying itself in knots. He went to the kitchen and calmed himself with the rhythmic chopping of veg for a salad.

Ignoring Sherlock’s sniping, John talked his predicament over with Billy the Skull as he worked. Neither of them had any decent ideas, but at least they were working on it. He chopped and kept on chopping. He may have gone overboard and ended up with a platter of greens topped with a sliced chicken breast, a cup of sunflower seeds, two hard boiled eggs, diced sausage, marinated macaroni, croutons and a cup and a half of homemade blue cheese dressing.

John sat contemplating the outsized salad.  It should be hard to call it cutting back when his plate was piled so generously.  In the end, he reckoned it was ok, because it was all healthy food and he’d skipped breakfast, after all.

***

Admittedly, John never did come up with a terribly brilliant plan for weight reduction.  He was simply 'cutting back'.  For the first time, however, he stuck to his guns. And that was something.

So, on a rainy Tuesday evening three weeks later, John was in the kitchen fixing dinner. He felt pretty good about the changes he’d been making since the couch incident. He wasn’t doing anything rash, or unhealthy. Rome hadn’t been built in a day. He was reducing his portion sizes, cutting back on second and third helpings. He was reducing the calorie and fat content of his ingredients. Tonight, for example, he’d cut his usual 6-serving recipe in half, used a lean cut of beef and cut back on the butter in the recipe.

And he was drinking water instead of wine. He tipped his water goblet toward Billy the Skull. “Cheers.” He considered Billy’s laughing visage. “Ta, mate. I appreciate the support.” He waggled a beef cube on the end of his fork and told Billy, “No need to sound so superior. I’m sure you had your own issues when you were alive.”

As he chopped ingredients, he informed Billy, “It’s going well enough. I’m increasing my cardio bit by bit. Sure. I need my cane. But I made a full circuit of Dorset Square this morning. Slow but steady wins the race, my friend. It should be nice tomorrow. I may venture as far as Regent’s Park...”

There was a knocking at the door. John called, “Come in, Mrs. Hudson.”

***

Out on the landing, the prodigal son had returned. Sherlock heard a gruff voice call, “Come in, Mrs. Hudson.”  So he did.

Sherlock entered unnoticed by whoever issued the invitation. His entrance was masked by the blaring of the evening's world financial report playing on tellies in both the sitting room and kitchen. Succulent aromas drew him toward a transformed kitchen that gleamed with restaurant-grade cook top, pots, pans and utensils.

The much changed kitchen was now populated with its own cooking professional, a gentleman in his mid-fifties, powder gray hair and beard, approximately 173 centimeters, muscular upper body, but remarkably corpulent at 150, no 151 kilograms, his bulk protected by a well-used apron and supported by thick, no-slip shoes. His performance was impressive. Even handicapped by the necessity of reaching beyond his vast abdomen, he simultaneously attended to sauce and sauté pans while adroitly chopping additional ingredients with speed and technique indicative of professional status. The man was probably a sous chef.

In addition to the various brackets bearing cooking implements, Sherlock noticed a new shelf above the counter storing, no doubt, cook books within easy reach. But why was the chef repeatedly looking up at the books? Ah, my old skull is wedged in between the books, thought Sherlock. John must have insisted upon placing a small bit of the familiar in this new kitchen environment and the chef is bothered by the presence of a human skull. But why on earth has John hired a chef? There are no preparations for an event of any sort. John would never have hired a chef for daily service; he could neither afford to nor would he presume to do so. Ah, budgets. John is always so practical; he must have brought the chef in as a flat mate to share expenses. That explains the chef's familiar assumption that my knocking would have been Mrs. Hudson -- I wonder where the dear is. Hopefully this fellow will know where both John and Mrs. Hudson are and when they might be expected to return.

He watched silently, not wanting to startle the man wielding the big knife. After a few minutes, however, it became apparent that Sherlock would have to make himself known.  He cleared his throat. "Ahem. Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Dr. John Watson."


	5. Return of the King

**  
** _"Ahem.  Excuse me, sir.  I'm looking for Dr. John Watson."_

 

\--------------

 

That voice; the tone of privilege and entitlement. John instantly knew the intruder was Sherlock. But that wasn't possible. Had his inner Sherlock gone rogue?

Turning, he saw a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes. This Sherlock was not only alive, but larger than life. Gone was the urban detective in his posh suit and Bellstaff. Here stood a mythic adventurer returned from safari. His travels were evident on his face: skin burnished from the sun, curly hair joined to a thick black fisherman's beard. No smart suit, but a utilitarian parka over a thick sweater, cargo trousers and hiking boots.

Yet, as changed as this adventurer was, he remained unmistakably Sherlock.  Here was Sherlock's cocky posture, his piercing steel blue eyes, the ever-present hint of a smirk. He tugged rawhide gloves off, finger by finger, as he always had. His scarf was an unfamiliar heavy knit, but still looped in the trademark knot.

Wait, thought John, what did he say? "... looking for Dr. John Watson..." He doesn't know me. Of course he doesn't recognize me; I'm a blimp, a dirigible! Look at him -- looks as if he's back from holiday. And just look at me!

"You're no--" John had no idea what he wanted to say.

 

\--------------

  

Whether he was startled or not, the bloke in the apron didn’t flinch. He landed the knife solidly on the cutting board before turning to look. Sherlock had only begun to take in the dour features when the bearded chef looked down and muttered,“You’re n…” After seeming to choke on his words, he shook his head sharply. Without looking up, he tried again, “I--."

Sherlock was patient despite himself, but when the man began to go red in the face, Sherlock poured him a glass of water. The water didn’t seem to help. The man was in clear distress. Sherlock moved behind him and applied the Heimlich maneuver. He had a hard time gauging the location of his sternum under so many rolls of fat, and it took Sherlock several tries to get it right. In the end, a chunk of something shot to the floor and the man began coughing -- and breathing. Sherlock handed him the glass of water again and he took a drink.

 “Better?” Sherlock asked.

 The man scowled at him and croaked, “Sherlock!”

 Sherlock smiled and raised his arms in something of a flourish. “Yes. Sherlock Holmes, at your service. I imagine Dr. Watson has mentioned me?”

At this, the man wailed in frustration. Very slowly, the chef turned off the burners and lowered himself to a chair. He took deliberate breaths and clasped his hands atop his mountainous girth in an apparent attempt to relax. His efforts were belied by the twitching of his right eye and the set of his mouth. Voice still cracked from his choking episode, he said, “I **_am_** John, you great deceased berk. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Sherlock gaped. John? It couldn’t be. The fleshy face under the beard? This bloke was much older and well over 300 pounds. Maybe the eyes… Maybe the nose… But no. Sherlock was never wrong. “Where’s John?” he insisted.

John shook his head in disbelief. He fished a mobile out of his shirt pocket and jabbed a speed dial. “Mycroft? Your brother is here in my kitchen .. No. In the flesh, I think… Yes, and he’s looking for Dr. John Watson... Yeah, brilliant.” He handed his mobile to Sherlock. “Mycroft .”

Sherlock took the phone warily and demanded, “Mycroft,” before stopping to listen. His eyes rounded like saucers and he looked incredulous. He wandered into the sitting room and plopped down on the repaired couch. “Yes, but--” Sherlock tried to answer. “I thought --” Sherlock looked more and more put out as he continued to listen, unable to get a word in edgewise. Finally, after being spoken to for several more minutes, he ended the call and returned John’s mobile without a word. He stood opposite and stared into John Watson’s clear blue eyes.

With the additional data from Mycroft Sherlock's erroneous deductions disappeared. “John!” he exclaimed, because it was true. This was John. His John. And he had changed significantly. Hugely.

Sherlock had conjured dozens worrisome scenarios for John in the first days after his fall from St. Bart's, and they now came back vividly.  Unable to do anything to help John back then, Sherlock had shoved his concerns to the side. Now, though, it was obvious he'd been right to worry about John. As difficult as Sherlock's journey had been, the days, weeks, months, years apart had been less kind to his friend. Sherlock could read the thousands of choices of new and different directions away from their life together John had had to cross. Based on what he observed, Sherlock began to think John’s road had probably been harder due to the simple fact without knowing of Sherlock's efforts, John had thought his own existence pointless. These were John’s eyes, but they held exhaustion and misery Sherlock had never imagined.

“John.” He tried to fill that one word with all his revelations, every one of his regrets. He had no idea what to say, but did know he had to say something. “I have no words to properly express how very, very sorry I am.”

John's face pulled into a mask of rage. He looked over Sherlock’s shoulder and snapped, “Shut the hell up!” Then to Sherlock, he muttered, “I need a drink.” He pushed himself up and waddled to the drinks cabinet. Without offering anything to Sherlock, he poured himself two fingers of Scotch and downed it in one. He poured another and went to lean against the counter. He was agitated, confused. He looked away from Sherlock and mumbled to himself, shook his head as if to clear his mind, then looked back at Sherlock. He crossed his beefy arms, then uncrossed them. He shifted as if preparing to speak. Still, he did not say a word.

Sherlock couldn't stand it. “Please, John. Let me explain.”

John’s face hardened. He held up his hand. “Did Mycroft know?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“No. I came home to you. Just let me explain, I did--”

“No! Stop. Just shut up. Mycroft is coming. He should be here for this.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth again to speak, but John cut him off. “Not one word. We’ve waited years. You’ll wait for Mycroft.”

A stony silence fell between them.

 

\--------------

 

The Scotch took the edge off John’s fury. He could not reconcile what he had seen with the fact Sherlock had survived. Whatever the explanation, it was obvious Sherlock had gone through hell. Upon closer inspection, he was shaggier and more unkempt than Sherlock would ever have endured, even for one of his disguises. He had dirt under his nails and badly bashed knuckles. His clothes were dirty and stained and, for god’s sake, he smelled. He can’t have had a shower in the last several days. His nose looked to have been broken recently, evidenced by the crooked notch and last bits of yellow bruising around the eyes. A pair of older scars across the left side of his face attested to prior injuries. He had no luggage whatsoever. Everything he owned must be stuffed in the pockets of his oversized parka and cargo pants. Together with his ragged fisherman’s sweater and hiking boots, the outfit might have been a disguise. However, no disguise of Sherlock’s had ever been so ragged or filthy.

After cataloguing Sherlock’s appearance, John remembered his own bloated body. He thought of what Sherlock must be deducing at this very moment. Surely Sherlock would know in an instant how much John weighed and exactly how much he must have eaten to grow so fat. He’d know what a pig John had been; how lazy; how reclusive; what a loser. Indeed, Sherlock looked troubled about what he was seeing. John burned in shame. Shame turned to anger. How dare Sherlock leave him behind to grieve and then come back here to judge the things John had done to cope! He had no fucking right. Where the hell was Mycroft?

 

\--------------

 

  
Sherlock stood frozen, feet set wide, hands jammed in parka pockets, continuing to catalogue the changes, extrapolating John’s experience. Sherlock's guilt mounted with every new detail. In addition to John's misery, he tried to process John’s anger. He’d imagined this moment countless times and never had he envisioned anger. John would be happy to see Sherlock alive, he'd imagined; so happy he might cry. But never angry. “Wh-“

“Shut. Your. Gob.”

Right. Stay quiet. Wait for Mycroft.

 

\--------------

 

Finally, Mycroft did arrive.

There were short heated words before Mycroft sat them all down and directed Sherlock to explain. John had little to say. Mycroft seemed to understand John's speechlessness and conducted a blessedly efficient the debriefing. He asked all the questions John would have asked if his brain hadn’t gotten stuck on hurt and anger and shame and regret.

Sherlock explained Moriarty's assassins and why he hared off on his own to track down and destroy Moriarty's criminal network. He described the details and frustrations of the case with his usual speed of light intensity. He explained why it took him too long and how sorry he was about the delays.

John, however, barely listened because he was too busy squabbling with his own head-Sherlock and Billy about John's anger and insecurities. He moved to the far corner of the counter to give himself a little space from the Holmes brothers.

Head–Sherlock told John not to worry. _He’s me. Ergo, he must love you as I do_.  Billy acknowledged Sherlock's tendency to judge critically, yet encouraged John to _give the man a chance._ John insisted they his friends were wrong. This technicolor giant was an entirely different thing. He was rash and unpredictable, where Head-Sherlock was what John wished Sherlock might have been. The fact this egocentric madman ran off on his own is proof positive that Sherlock was never the man John imagined him to be. Head-Sherlock had a full-out snit,  _How dare you dismiss my advice after trusting and confiding in me for years!  I thought we were friends!!_ Billy hushed Head-Sherlock and implored John to take a wait and see strategy. John thought he’d rather rip Sherlock’s head off.

From the details John could glean past the din of his own turmoil, Sherlock's story was unbelievable, and the sheer improbability of his strategy had probably been the main reason it had been effective. He understood that, sort of. But it didn’t make it better. It didn't change the fact Sherlock hadn’t needed him; hadn’t trusted him to help. Hell, he hadn’t even trusted him to so much as know Sherlock wasn’t dead. Because arrogant Sherlock considered himself all powerful, of course he believed he was the only person in the world with the requisite skill set to untangle Moriarty's web. He certainly hadn’t respected John as an asset. Wasn’t Sherlock aware of how many times John put himself in danger to save Sherlock’s life?

And, Jesus fucking Christ, if John had only known… the past years would have been so different. He wouldn’t have mourned. He wouldn’t have fallen into his ridiculous habits. And he certainly wouldn’t be sitting here like the great fat oaf he’d become.

Suddenly, all of the details John had been ignoring slammed him in the face. His intentional fog cleared and his every sense was enhanced. His feet ached with the pressure of supporting his total bulk. His knees and hips and back were weighed down as if he carried a fully laden pack of gear. Suffering under the load, his swollen feet and ankles throbbed in too tight shoes and socks. His formerly muscular legs strained at the simple task of standing and could do nothing to shock or balance his bulk. His hands were jammed in tight pockets that squeezed his hands against the squash of his belly-hang packed into his trousers. It wasn’t just his belly that was packed in. His trousers were moulded so tightly around his fleshy thighs and backside he felt like he must be wearing compression shorts.

All this was to say nothing of the elephant on his waist. His cute little lap cat was long gone and replaced by a monstrous mushroom that bloomed out above and over his belt. John did have eyes, after all. He knew his belly had become his predominant feature. It dominated the mirror any time he bothered to look. He couldn’t see past it to tie his shoes. It blocked his reach and access to sinks and counters and tables. Of course it did. But, 15 minutes ago, it had seemed a benign inconvenience. Now... now it seemed a moral flaw and fatal obstruction between him and the real, live breathing Sherlock standing here staring at him with that look that said... What on earth did that look say? John didn’t know. His feet hurt and his heart beat too hard and he needed to sit down.

 

\--------------

 

Between his raging emotions and trying to understand the layers of conspiracy and split loyalties and twists of fate in Sherlock’s tale, there were a lot of things John missed. He only saw the surprise and concern when Sherlock looked his way. He entirely missed the odd bits of empathy and admiration in the mix. More importantly, under all the grime and skin deep signs of injury, John didn’t see the surprising fact Sherlock was more well nourished than he had ever been in his adult life. Much more well nourished, in fact. Sherlock’s shaggy beard camouflaged his own chubby cheeks and softened chin. He wasn't looking when Sherlock pulled off his parka and his sweater pulled up enough to flash an inch of soft belly flesh. And because of the way Sherlock leaned forward on the table, John couldn’t see the surprisingly ample pot belly that rested in Sherlock’s lap.

 

\--------------

 

Just about the time John was coming back round to the thought he wanted to rip Sherlock’s head off, he noticed both Holmeses staring at him expectantly. “What?” he asked irritably.

Sherlock huffed at John’s inattention.

Mycroft smiled gently and repeated, “Sherlock asked if we had any more questions before he goes to take a shower and get some rest.”

Caught off guard, John responded with hostility, ‘“Bit presumptuous, aren’t you? This may have been our flat at one point. But you staged your death for me as witness. You hared off, presumably dead, not a word for years. I’ve managed without you. It’s not been your flat for quite a long time. Ask Mycroft; maybe your brother has room for you.”


End file.
